Exiles at the Well of Souls

Aboard the Freighter Assateague

The small diplomatic ship inched close to the interspace freighter airlock. The freighter pilot watched the ship dock on her forward screens, then checked her computer equipment and scanners to make certain the seal was complete.

“Make fast, allow boarding,” she said in a strong, accentless, and surprisingly deep voice.

“Affirmative,” responded a mechanical-sounding version of the same voice, as the ship’s computer locked in.

“Keep station until further orders,” she told the computer, then rose and started the long walk back to the central airlock.

Why couldn’t they put the locks closer to the bridge? she wondered irritably. But, then again, she’d only been boarded in space twice before.

She was a tiny woman for such a big, rich voice, barely 150 centimeters in her bare feet; when dressed, she wore shiny black boots almost up to her knee, which, invisibly, added an additional thirteen centimeters to her height. She was still short, but it did add something, and it added far more psychologically. She was also very thin, at her waist almost impossibly so. She certainly weighed no more than forty-one kilograms, if that. Her small breasts seemed in perfect proportion to the rest of her, and she moved like a cat. She was dressed in her best: a thick, form-fitting black body-stocking with a matching sleeveless black shirt that also seemed form-fitted and a black belt with a golden, abstract dragon design as its buckle. The belt hung on her hips, not as decoration, but as a carryall for a number of things in hidden compartments and a holster, with a sleek, jet-black pistol that wasn’t hidden.

Her face was an oval sitting perfectly atop a long neck; it was extremely Chinese in appearance, much more so than the norm, although everyone looked vaguely Oriental in some way. Her coal-black hair was cropped short, in the spacer’s style.

She wore no jewelry other than the buckle. Her fingernails were long and sharp and looked as if they were painted slightly silver. But this was not the case; they’d been medically toughened and surgically altered. The nails were like ten sharp, pointed steel claws.

Although she seldom thought about her appearance, and never when in space, she stopped just before reaching the lock and studied herself in the mirrored surface of polished metal. Her skin, a dark yellowish-brown, was creamy-smooth; although she wore many scars, none were visible in that outfit.

Satisfied, she keyed the lock. There was a hissing sound as the pressure equalized, and then the red light over the lock winked out and the green winked on. She pulled the handle, opening the lock.

All locks could be opened only manually, and only from the inside. It was a safety precaution that had saved many a freighter captain’s life.

Through the lock and into the ship walked an ancient, chiseled in stone. The woman had been a big one once, but age had stooped her, and flesh sagged all over. She looked as if she were about to drop dead.

But she cursed when offers from her ship and a gesture from the freighter captain for aid were tendered. Her face showed a pride and arrogance born of experience and self-knowledge, and her dark eyes burned with an almost independent intensity.

She stepped clear of the lock, gathered her white robe about her, and let the captain close the lock behind them.

The young captain, much smaller than the matriarch, offered a chair to the visitor. The captain sat on the deck, Buddha-like, and stared at her visitor.

And the stare was returned. Councillor Lee Pak Alaina’s incredibly alive eyes studied every inch of the tiny spacer.

“So you’re Mavra Chang,” the councillor said at last, in a voice that cracked not only with age but with authority.

The captain nodded respectfully. “I have that honor,” she responded. Her tone was respectful, but it lost none of its firmness or confidence.

The old woman looked around the ship. “Ah, yes. To be young again! The doctors tell me one more rejuve and I’ll lose my mind.” She looked back at the captain. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” she replied.

“And already a ship commander!” the old woman exclaimed. “My, my!”

“I inherited it,” the captain responded.

The councillor nodded. “Yes, indeed. I know quite a lot about you, Mavra Chang. I have to. Born on Harvich’s World three hundred twenty-seven months ago, oldest of eight children born to a traditionalist couple, Senator Vasura Tonge and her husband, Marchal Hisetti, a doctor. Picked up when, despite their best efforts, the world went Com twenty-two years ago. Some connected friends got you smuggled to Gnoshi spaceport when they nabbed the rest of your family, and placed you in the custody of Mak Hung Chang, a freighter captain who was bribed to get you to safety. Citizen Chang pocketed the money and raised you herself, after getting a disbarred doctor to alter your appearance more in line with the captain’s.”

Mavra looked up, mouth open. How could anyone possibly have traced her beyond Maki?

“Maki Chang arrested for smuggling prohibited items into Comworlds, leaving you to find your own way on the barbarian world of Kaliva at the age of thirteen. Made it by doing just about everything, legal and illegal. Met and fell in love with a handsome freighter captain named Gimball Nysongi at the age of nineteen. Nysongi killed by muggers on Basada five years ago, and since then you’ve run this ship alone.” She smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes, I know you, Mavra Chang.”

The captain studied the old woman in increasing wonder. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find out about me. I assume that those are just the parts you want to mention?”

That sweet smile broadened. “Of course, dear. But it’s the unmentionable parts that bring us together here today.”

Suddenly Mavra became businesslike. “What’s it about? An assassination? Smuggling? Something illegal?”

The old woman’s smile vanished. “Something illegal, yes, but not on my part or yours. We studied the profiles of thousands of scoundrels before contacting you.”

“Why me?” the young woman asked, genuinely intrigued.

“First, because you’re politically amoral—laws and regulations don’t bother you. Second, because you retain some moral principles—you hate the Com even as you supply it, and with good reason.”

Mavra Chang nodded. “It’s more than that. Not just what they did to me—it’s what they do to people. Everybody looks alike, acts alike, thinks alike, except for the party, whatever it is. Happy little anthills.” She spat to illustrate her feelings.

Councillor Alaina nodded. “Yes, that, too. Additionally, you’ve got guts, you’re tough inside and out, your upbringing having made you smart in ways most people never dream. And being a small, pretty woman doesn’t hurt either—people tend to underestimate you because of your size, and, for this job, a woman will be far less suspect than a man.”

Mavra shifted, bringing both legs up in front of her, resting her arms on her knees. “So what is it you want done that a councillor can’t do herself?”

“Do you know Antor Trelig?” Alaina asked sharply.

“Big shot,” Mavra responded. “Heavy Council influence, also heavy in the rackets. Practically controls New Outlook as his personal kingdom.”

The old woman nodded. “Good, good. Now I’ll tell you a few other things. You know of the sponge syndicate, of course.”

Mavra nodded.

“Well, dear, darling Antor is its leader. The biggest of them all. We’ve had some success against them, but the drug is pervasive, the party structure close-knit and inbred, and through it and good political moves, Antor has managed to come within thirteen votes of a majority on the Council.”

The young captain gasped. “But that would give him control of the terror weapons!” she exclaimed.

“It would indeed,” Alaina agreed. “He would control all of us, every last human being in the sector. He’s